“You don’t think I’m sweet enough?” Those blue eyes, those twilight eyes, suddenly seem a little dangerous, glittering like broken glass. “Or maybe you didn’t think me sweet as much as a sucker?”
“Excuse me?”
“What happened to the last good girl in Vegas? The one who didn’t lie or park illegally? The one who’d never jumped a red light.”
“She grew up,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
He gives a slow, almost sad shake of his head. “You know, I get that this is difficult for you, but do you see it’s a complete mindfuck to find you after all these years? To discover how much I’ve missed out on?”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. What happened to me? What happened to the laid-back Australian?
“You didn’t tell anyone about me.” Roman’s expression narrows, telegraphing his thoughts perfectly. “Wilder’s parentage is like some big conspiracy theory. Was it the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker?”
“I told him,” I say, flinging my arm in Jenner’s direction as he returns to the counter, his arms full of dishes.
“Me?” The dishes rattle as Jenner physically starts. He assumes the expression of a bunny in the face of a big rig.
“You know who he is,” I prompt, hooking a thumb in Roman’s direction. “Right?” I’m not sure why I’m being drawn into this, apart from the desire to have the upper hand. Tell the truth, my mind whispers. You prefer to be right.
“He’s the renter?” Jenner offers carefully.
“Yes. But who else is he?”
“You told me to keep my mouth shut,” he retorts, aggrieved. Like I’m setting him up for something he can’t win.
“Since when have you ever listened to me?” I snort, then remember Jenner isn’t the one in the shit right now. I am. “Annie knows, too,” I mutter, waving vaguely in the direction of the kitchen.
“I didn’t mean to tell her,” Jenner adds in the same tone.
“Let me guess,” Roman cuts in. “You’ve known all of five minutes.”
“She told me last night,” Jenner mutters, noping right out of the situation with a flounce and a rattle of dishes as he turns in the direction of the kitchen.
“We’re talking about this, you and me.” Roman’s attention turns my way abruptly. I think this might be what it feels like looking down the turret of a tank. “Right now. And don’t give me any of this shit about you being busy.”
“Mom?”
My heart suddenly goes ba-dunk.
Son protection: wa-wa! Level failed.
“In a minute, sweetie.” I don’t dare look his way, not with this glass face. I do, however, watch Roman do so. He shoots him a small smile of reassurance that isn’t going to fool my—our—son.
“I’ll take that pumpkin latte, thanks.” I find myself a little surprised as Roman pulls out an expensive-looking leather wallet. “And get one for yourself.” Maybe I was expecting nylon and Velcro, perhaps because his watch looks like it’s seen better days. “Then me and you?” He leans in to prevent Wilder’s little ears from overhearing. “We’re going to take our drinks outside. It’s a nice day. We can catch up while we catch a few rays.”
“You think it’s private out there? That your old-timer new best friends can’t lip read.”
“No worries, little love. I’m not the one hiding things.”
16
Roman
PRESENT
RED FOR FRUSTRATION
“Well, shit.”
The barista’s exclamation is half laugh, half huff as I pull open the tinkling door.
“Dollar in the swear jar, Jenner.” The kid’s voice makes me turn my head. He’s still sitting at the table with his little friend, but it makes me wonder what else he heard. Especially with the way he’s looking at me. Studying me.
Without thought, I raise my hand. See you soon, little bud. The door closes behind me with a muffled chime, and I set off past the windows of the coffee shop, forcing myself not to look.
Before I walked into the place, I told myself I wouldn’t be an arse about it—that I didn’t have to be, being a grown-arsed man and all. I let my mind run through all the good things the oldies had to say, even if they unknowingly let the cat out of the bag in a lot of other ways. Even Betty, the grumpy old sheila, had nothing but praise for Kennedy as a mother. She had some not so complimentary things to say, but that was mostly old people thinking.
Kennedy deserves my respect, my praise, and my understanding had become my mantra as I’d swung open the door. She had my kid and has been raising him singlehandedly, and for that, she also deserves my eternal gratitude. And then she’d greeted me with that cute little scowl, and all good sense had flown out the window.
Fuck.
The main drag through Mookatill is quintessential small-town America. Driving through the county, it seemed mostly cow shit and farmland. But then I hit the coast and was struck by how it reminded me of home. It may have been the coastline or the pine trees, but something about downtown Mookatill reminds me of small-town Australia. I don’t know what it is, just that the place feels kind of homey, despite the less than warm reception I’ve had so far. I turn left at the end of the street and dump the travesty of a coffee in the nearest bin. Turning immediately left, I follow Kennedy’s muttered directions. The directions she’d only given once it became clear I wasn’t leaving until we’d had this conversation. My heart knocks against my ribcage, hard and loud because there stands my happy welcoming party. It’s hard to tell if she’s expecting a conversation or a throwdown.